


that one fic where link fucks monsters

by kinnoth



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Humiliation, Kink Meme, Masochism, Mpreg, Multiple Orgasms, Other, Porn, all the penetrations, i'm so fucking sorry about this, some kind of aborted scat/watersports, tentacle beastiality, this one thing that's kind of like spitroasting that i'm not sure actually has a name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 08:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7708231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinnoth/pseuds/kinnoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>somewhere, in a non-specific zelda-verse</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chuchu

**Author's Note:**

> we're not going to talk about this.

Link awoke to something soft and squidgy pressing slowly up against his back. He sighed and opened his eyes. Chuchu attack. Again. It was one of the reasons why most people locked themselves behind city walls after dark. But he had been on his way back from the mountains when night had fallen, and though he could see the lights of civilisation winking off in the distance, it had been a long day of questing and fighting and running for his life. He was tired, so he made camp on a grassy thatch just outside of town. And now the chuchus had found him. Such were the risks of adventuring.

He shrugged away from the touch, not willing to be bothered. Chuchus weren't monsters, per se. Sure, they killed a couple people every year, but they could hardly be counted as malicious creatures. They were just brainless; oversized blobs of ectoplasm that by some evolutionary chance had been made haphazardly mobile. Their existence was a constant search for food and heat, and Link was too tired today to let this one find either with his body.

It was persistent though; it must have been desperate, because chuchus were usually easily enough rebuffed. It slimed its way against Link's back again, its membrane cool but warming quickly as it leached the heat from Link's skin. Link shrugged again, which made the chuchu draw away, but it came back, soon enough. Its membrane spread over Link's shoulders and down his spine, pressing into the space where Link's arm met his torso and then where his legs met each other. Link's half-hearted struggle ceased. Oh why not? he thought. He'd had stranger bedmates, after all.

Sensing its prey had gone still, the chuchu worked to wrap itself around Link's body. It pushed beneath him, lifting him off from his bedroll. Link held still and let the chuchu do as it would until it tried to snake up his neck. Link twisted his head away and after a number of vigorous shakes, the chuchu left his face alone. This was how most people died from chuchu attacks, when the were crept upon unawares and suffocated by its gelatinous membrane before they awoke. Link knew better though; he could let the chuchu take what it wanted from him without fear for his life.

The chuchu's amorphous limbs slimed under the hem of his tunic and the waistband of his breeches. It was trying to separate him from his clothing, like a person would peel the skin from a fruit. Link held still for it and soon enough the chuchu was pressed up against him, skin to skin, warming all the while as Link's flesh cooled. The chuchu's touch was deceptively wet; he felt as if his body was submerged underwater, but when he moved his fingers against themselves, they were still bone dry.

The chuchu had shaped itself into every fold and crevice of Link's body, and it clung to him like a set of skin-form clothing. So enveloped now, Link could feel the chuchu's life against him. Bare sentience was still sentience. It had a pulse of its own which shuddered and rippled around his entire body. Link sighed and the chuchu sighed with him, expanded when Link drew breath. Its rhythm was slow and deep, and when it contracted again, Link felt it press bluntly against the openings of his body.

It couldn't breach him on its own; its hold was too weak for that, its membrane much too soft. But it pressed there firmly, and while Link couldn't help it with the tiny hole at the tip of his penis, the other one... Well, it had been a while.

Slowly, so as not to upset the chuchu's hold, Link moved his hand to reach back behind him. His arsehole was tight, but he wasn't unpractised in relaxing himself to be breached. The first finger went in freely enough, and as he felt himself loosen around it, he pushed another in. This one was more difficult, and the friction burned. Link closed his eyes and let his breath go ragged. Two fingers in, two knuckles deep, but the chuchu hadn't taken the invitation yet. Should he go for a third?

He leveraged the two fingers, stretching his hole, making room for another when he felt something else press in besides them. Finally, he thought, and spread his fingers wider. The chuchu seemed to get the idea and pressed itself into him.

Link's spine arched and brought his head back with it. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly. The chuchu plunged in as if it intended to crawl up inside Link's body. It must have really been starving. Chuchus were waste eaters; every time a town was built, chuchu populations sprung up around it to consume the waste the people generated inside. Sometimes the town population couldn't keep up with the chuchu population, and the chuchus went hungry. 

This one was especially lucky; it would get its meal straight from the source. The chuchu's membrane opened and its ectoplasm leaked out, slick and wet, as it began to feed. The chuchu had no conception of the limits of a human body; it pushed too hard, too fast. Link's arsehole could barely stretch in time to accommodate it. His skin heated, but the chuchu leached it away again. His body broke into a sweat, but the chuchu absorbed that too. He was being opened wider and wider; the chuchu held him open as it fit more of itself into his hole.

Link coughed up a moan and rolled his hips back against the intrusion. It was like rocking back against a wall. The chuchu was cleaning him from the inside out, sloughing up against his insides, reaching deeper and further than anything else ever could. He thought he could feel the chuchu just beneath the skin of his belly, spilling into him, prodding, consuming, mindless of him and his pleasure, knowing nothing more than its own instinct.

Shakily, he brought one hand behind him again and touched around the appendage at his opening. It was hot and wet with the chuchu's ectoplasm; he pressed a knuckle into the chuchu's soft body to fit a fingertip inside alongside it. Then he traced his way all around. He couldn't see for sure, but the approximation left him breathless. He'd never been this opened before. He could fit his entire hand into himself like this if he wanted, his entire fist.

But maybe he could have more. As steadily as he could, Link rolled to his stomach and pushed himself to his knees. The chuchu moved with him, every bit with him, never withdrawing an inch. Link opened his legs, spreading his feet as far as they would go. He bent his head down, gasping as the chuchu took the advantage and pushed further into him. He was shaking now, full, gasping shudders. If it weren't for the chuchu's support, he would collapse into his bedroll.

His hand on his prick, thumbing the slit with a fingernail. Not to be an ungracious host, after all, but he hadn't yet offered the chuchu would a drink. Sliding his palm up and down, again and again. Precum dribbled from the tip, and he milked it desperately for moisture. His fingertip again, pressing at the slit. Perhaps it was just too small, and the chuchu just couldn't sense it, pressing in again,prying a little -- there it was. Recognising that every exit was just another opening, the chuchu found his slit like it had found his arsehole and slithered up against it. Link could hardly help it this time, but the chuchu didn't appear to need his help any more. All he could do was hold his cock steady in his fist as the chuchu prodded experimentally. When a sliver of an appendage slipped inside at last, Link nearly screamed. It expanded as it had in his arse, and slicked and stretched, so completely full -- Link came with a wail, spine bending, his eyes shut so tightly the black of his eyelids burst into colours.

It was a curious, dry orgasm; the chuchu had intercepted his emission before it ever left his body. It was still pulsating inside him, in his arsehole, in his cock, as Link panted against it, his weight entirely held up by its gelatinous mass as every muscle on his body let bonelessly go. He felt himself daze for a bit, a couple seconds, or maybe several minutes, but he'd been still too long, and the chuchu tucked under his chin crept soundlessly into his mouth.

Link flailed, or he would have, but his arms were bound within the chuchu's hold and now it was fitting its way between his teeth, working past his gag reflex and down his throat. He could hardly breathe; his jaw ached and his eyes sprung with tears. His mouth watered around the chuchu's limb, and his saliva dripped from his bottom lip and dripped onto the chuchu's membrane.

Link could feel his blood rise, but it was still too soon to get it up again. Still, as the chuchu opened his arse, sounded his urethra, sat heavy and slick in his throat, Link wanted to come. He rocked his body back and forth between the intrusion in his arse and the one in his mouth, moaning in frustration as bursts of unspecific pleasure flared in his nerves like weak electricity. He wanted it harder, faster, more direct. He wanted to be driven into the ground by the force of it. He wanted to be fucked.

Link wriggled. It was good, sure, but it wasn't enough. He wanted something the chuchu couldn't give him, and he was growing bored with what it could. He moved to push the chuchu off of him. As if sensing that its prey had started to struggle again, the chuchu's efforts suddenly redoubled. It seized Link's limbs, its hold suddenly hardened, not soft or pillowy any longer, but something demanding. Link grunted in surprise as the chuchu forced him face first into the ground and pried his legs open wide, wider than he'd thought he could spread them, until they were nearly perpendicular to his body.

It began rummaging into his body, eating desperately. The chuchu was not a powerful creature; to suddenly strengthen like this must be something it could only continue in short bursts. But short bursts were enough. Its limbs pulsed and pushed at Link's holes, shrinking then widening as it piped his waste from inside him in gulps. Link rocked with it, his eyes squeezed tight, sucking tightly on the limb in his mouth and clenching down on the limb in his arse, fighting each push and pull, making the chuchu work harder. Every quick swell in his arsehole pushed neatly against his prostate.

He didn't have to choose between having his face fucked or his arse opened or his dick played with. The chuchu followed him wherever he went, however he positioned himself. Every way he jerked or pushed brought some new angle of pleasure. He lifted his arse higher into the air to move against the chuchu, rotating it clockwise in greedy little circles, always looking for more. The chuchu delivered. Bigger gulps now, faster pace. Link's rhythm began to falter and his mouth fell slack as he dropped his head and just let the chuchu work him.

This was good. This was what he needed. Fucking. Being used. Being held down and owned.

He made a broken sound as he came again, dry for real this time, no new cocktail for the chuchu to drink. He crumpled into himself as orgasm shuddered through him as the chuchu ate on. Distantly, languidly, he wondered where the chuchu was up to now. Perhaps his large intestine; perhaps it was enjoying the dinner he'd had last night.

Suddenly, without warning, the chuchu surged in his mouth. Link tried to cough, tried to gag, but the chuchu was driving down his throat with the same insistence it had filled his other holes. He felt its limb reaching down his oesophagus, then somewhere in his belly. The limb in his arse stilled for a moment, and Link had the distinct impression that they'd somehow linked together inside of him, that he'd been completely speared through like a hog on a spitroast. Desperate for breath, Link gagged once and then bit down. Ectoplasm flooded bitter and salty over his tongue, and he swallowed chuchu's limb. Link felt it squirm inside him all the way down.

The chuchu didn't even appear to mind; it was nerveless as it was brainless, after all. It withdrew from his mouth, however, and Link gasped for breath. The pulsing in his arse and dick were slowing again; perhaps it was because Link had gone slack, or the chuchu had had its fill. Link didn't find he cared much. He was spent, clearly and completely, but when the chuchu slithered out from deep inside him, he still trembled at the loss and was nearly sorry for it. His cock first, slowly, and then his arse, where it stayed at the entrance as it lowered Link down. Link ground lazily against it. He liked that limb where it was; it felt like it belonged there. But at last, the chuchu withdrew, and its final appendage slipped from inside him with a wet and dirty slurp.

Link rolled onto his back as the chuchu bounced off, glimmering green in the distance; Link watched it go from between his knees, two fingers twisting lazily inside himself, revelling contemplatively in the looseness. His insides felt slick still from the ectoplasm, his belly full, probably from where it had collected.

His bed was still in the thatch of grass, though, and it was mercifully dry. He tucked down again for the second time that night, and he was nearly asleep when he heard another sucking sound and a cool press against the small of his back. Link glanced over behind him. Another chuchu, pink this time. The chuchu spread hesitantly against his skin. His dick hardened at the sight. Well, he thought, reaching over to pull it closer, he could always use another round.

\---

The next morning, ablutions were a nightmare. Squatting in the bushes, he strained but nothing came out. Panting and grunting, he thought perhaps he'd allowed the chuchus to mess up his insides, but he'd taken a red potion just after breakfast, and his arsehole was as tight as ever. Clenching down again, he gave one last shove. Finally, there it was. His insides emptied, Link reached for the small pile of leaves he'd brought with him, but then he noticed the smell. Or the lack of one.

Turning curiously, he looked down. It was a chuchu, no bigger than his two fists put together, pink with specks of green. It bounced nervously, as if it were trying to escape. Without thinking, Link reached over towards his supplies and fished out a bottle. He swiped the mottled chuchu into it where it quivered experimentally. Link held it up to the light to consider it. Well, he'd caught stranger things.

Packing his things away, the chuchu at the top of his pack, he set off towards town. He was due in the forests today, to defeat some monster or another. He needed rupees and supplies, and possibly a long bath. A mottled chuchu had to fetch a good price, he thought, but then considered. To sell it seemed rather callous. Perhaps he'd prefer to keep this one for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kink meme prompt images: [1](http://rule34.paheal.net/post/view/781925), [2](http://rule34.paheal.net/post/view/743299)
> 
> nsfw. obviously.


	2. like-like

Carelessness is one thing but stupidity is quite another. Like-likes aren't, after all, subtle creatures, and this one is enormous: as wide around as a Kokiri tree and easily twice Link's height, but, while Link had been trying to shoot down a flock of shrieking keese across the chamber, it had managed to sneak up on him. Link flails uselessly, hastily flinging aside his sword and shield to keep them from being swallowed with him. While like-likes could not digest living organic matter, the metal and varnish of Link's weapons was another thing entirely. 

The fine, undulating cilia around the like-like's mouth grasp at his limbs and push him quickly down into the like-like's gullet, like sinking into slick, soft quicksand. Link squirms, trying to regain his bearings. The like-like's body is simply one long tube of digestive tract, but the more Link moves, the deeper he slides into its system. 

He stops, then, and just holds himself still, as still as he's able, until the cilia stop pushing and he's probably as deep as he's likely to be. An arm's reach above his head, Link can see the open roof of the temple through the like-like's gasping mouth. His hands are pinned though, as is his entire body; Link can barely crane his neck back to look up. The cilia are thicker this far down, their texture coarser and harder than the ones at the monster's mouth. Their movements are steady and unified as the like-like sloshes back and forth along the floor, but their hold does not loosen.

This is inconvenient, Link considers. He'd hoped to be done with this dungeon by nightfall, perhaps head back into town for a proper dinner and maybe a bed at the inn. He'd be lucky to fight his way out of this place by noon tomorrow at this rate. 

The hard, slick head of a cilium digs uncomfortably into Link's belly. His tunic has long since been soaked through with the like-like's digestive fluids, but the sensation of cilia sliding directly against his skin surprises him. Link looks down at himself: his clothes have already started being digested. Deeply annoyed, Link gives a vengeful twist to the cilium nearest his left hand. Thrice damned like-likes, Link thinks, twisting again and hoping that it caused the monster some pain, or at least indigestion. Like-likes were always the most inconsiderate. Now what is he going to wear after he gets out of this? He can't run naked through a dungeon. That's just inviting trouble. 

Link digs his blunt fingernails into the cilium's round tip, then yanks on it with an abrupt jerk of his wrist. What a stupid creature, like-likes, Link is thinking, when suddenly, the cilium erupts in digestive fluid against his hand. Startled, Link pulls his hand back -- he can. The spent cilium flaps limply upon the like-like's inner wall. Oh, Link thinks, rubbing the viscous fluid speculatively between two fingers. Oh.

His right hand next, and after another stuttering spurt of fluid, his two hands at once, crossed awkwardly over his chest to grasp at two cilia harassing his face. The one in his left hand finishes first, its fluid releasing without warning. Link flinches back, but it catches him in the face anyway. Before he has time to react, the other cilium releases, and he's hit again. Digestive fluid slides down his face; licking his lips, Link catches a drop of it on the tip of his tongue. It's salty, slightly bitter, but hardly intolerable. 

His mouth in the game now, Link can now work at three cilia at once, and work goes much more quickly. He'd lost his boots sometime in he meanwhile; this space in between his toes squidge with the fluids leaking from the cilia, running down his body. It seems to him that the like-like's movements have become more pointed, cilia pressing urgently at all parts of his body. Link had gone through perhaps ten, maybe fifteen cilia at that point, and there was little point denying it anymore: he is quite enjoying himself.

He liked the stroking well enough, liked running his nails lightly along the length of each cilium, polishing the slick ends of them with his thumb, liked the quiver and urgent push of them in the moments before they released their fluids. He even liked sucking, liked the weight of the cilia on his tongue and pressing his lips against the inner wall of the like-like's body as he swallowed down around each cilium's smooth head. With cilia pushing against his thighs and cock and belly, tickling his feet, he wonders if he can bring any more of them off with the other parts of his body. He crosses his legs together at the ankles and cilia crowd to fill the neat space between his thighs, knocking against his balls with every rhythmic retreat. 

The cilium that slides sly and slick into the cleft of his arse is thicker than the others and sends a broken shudder through his body as he presses back against it. Groping blindly with his hand, he finds that, from the feel of things, there is an entire row of cilia appetisingly thicker and longer than the others. He tilts back his arse and another one of the thicker cilia nudges into place between his arsecheeks. 

He gets a couple off just like that, but then one catches on the ridge of his arsehole and dips briefly in before splattering the small of his back with fluids and going limp. Link pushes musingly up against the next cilium in line to take a turn at his arse. He hadn't thought of that. He chastises himself for overlooking what was so obvious, what would not only contribute to his progress towards freedom, but would also satisfy the only part of his body so far woefully neglected. 

His fingers slick from a dozen cilia, Link reaches back and pushes easily into himself, two fingers two knuckles deep without even trying. He cautiously scissors himself open, his sticky eyelids fluttering open and shut against the slow burn. The cilium was still sliding between his legs, nudging aimlessly at his perineum. Link holds himself open, his weight on his toes, partially suspended by the cilia pushing and sliding against him. The fingers of both hands grip tight on either buttock, plainly offering. But when the cilium misses for the third time, Link reaches behind himself to guide it in. It kisses briefly against his opening and the first inch pushes in, but when Link settles his weight back down on his heels, it slips again. 

Link makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, and that vibration is enough, at least, to send the cilium in his mouth into spasming release. He pulls off before it finishes, turning his head in annoyance to see what the problem is. Most of the fluid lands in his hair, on his face, but Link doesn't even bother with it. He has so much fluid on him and in him now, another cilium worth isn't going to make a difference.

The row of thicker cilium by his arse is a bit high up for his arsehole, even given the changing geography of the like-like's movements. He tries again to lift himself up to it, but it's too slick and slides away again. Frustrated, his own release close but not close enough, he mutters irritably to none of them in particular, "I just want you to fuck me, I just want to come with something in my arse, is that so hard?"

To fit it in his arse, he needs a leg up. With a bit of shifting and squirming, Link wiggles his way up a couple of inches, his feet now held up by the pair of cilia which had rubbed at his ankles, his hands grasping at two untouched cilia for leverage. Gingerly, he lowers himself down and is pleased to find his flesh parting readily for the cilia and its steady upward curve. Even with the slick and the like-like's wobbling and the weight of his own body, it takes Link several moments to sink even half of the way down. His muscles burning softly and feeling well-enough full, Link rolls himself up and down, moving against the motion of the travelling like-like, supporting himself with his hands and feet rubbing on other cilia. This is good, he thinks, feeling the hazy cloud of pleasure thicken behind his eyes. He likes bathing in the slick, the innumerable cilia he's had in his body, the subtle difference to the taste of each release. He likes getting fucked, and this is a most excellent fucking.

He's close now, feels the pressure building in his limbs, tightening his balls. He drops one hand from the cilia to wrap around his own cock, then the other to squeeze at his balls and to dip slyly into his arsehole beside the cilium. 

His toes are curling, he's so close, so he increases his pace, tugs harder on his prick, stuffs another finger alongside the cilium, stretching. He's so close he doesn't even register the cilium underneath his right foot finishes, and then, with hardly a moment's difference, the one beneath his left foot as well. Stepholds suddenly vanished, the cilium in Link's arse takes all his weight, all at once. Link slips down, taking all of the cilium into his body, all at once, three fingers still shoved in beside it, he hardly has the awareness to cry out in shock when the pleasure and the pain and the pressure mount all at once. He comes violently and unexpectedly, so hard and so fast he forgets himself afterwards, doesn't even have the presence of mind to regain his foothold, just hangs there supported by nothing but the cilium up his arse and the slight incline to the like-like's body. 

The cilium is still hard, Link notes dazedly. It would be more expedient to just get it off with his arse than to climb off it and use something else. He draws his knees up and pushes his feet against the soft, opposite wall of the like-like's body. It gives beneath his weight but holds while he pushes himself up and down, grinding at the base, tightening as he draws himself back up. The head of the cilia is somewhere nearly sixteen inches inside of him, he considers and feels the first stirrings of arousal at that thought. 

It's to naught though, because just as he begins to harden again, the cilium comes, floods him so deep that barely anything drips back out again as he's dropped onto the floor of the like-like's digestive tube. He's gone in the wrong direction, Link thinks absently, but that's when the cilia on the floor rouse to life, thick and long and gleaming with slick in the dim light. Link wraps his fingers around one of one delicately, disbelievingly. He can't touch his thumb with his fingertips. He draws his hand away and swallows. His mouth waters.

He's on his knees and occupied to full capacity, and it's his third round, or fourth, he can't remember. The timing is always a little off; either the one in his mouth, the ones in his hands, or the one in his ass come early and he has to get the others off while he's still hard, or he gets off first and has to finish the cilia, at the end of which means he's up for another round again. It's beautifully frustrating, the best of dilemmas. 

The cilium in his mouth quivers and heats, which Link has learnt means that it is close, and so he takes his mouth off it and concentrates on grinding and swivelling with his hips. The one in his arse needs to catch up which, frankly, he's a bit insulted by; his arse is as slick and tight as any mouth: better, since even his mouth can't do some of the things his pelvic floor can do. 

He's noticed the cilia on the floor of the like-like's cavity are more intelligent than the ones on the walls; perhaps not more intelligent, but more responsive to stimuli. Link had taken no small pleasure in teasing the ones before by rocking only alternately into the one in his mouth or the one in his arse and had enjoyed how they seemed to try to chase him when he drew back. 

Absently, but not without a little intent in mind, Link licks at the head of the cilium by his mouth, kisses the tip and watches it struggle to reach after him when he sat back on his heels. 

Laughing a bit darkly, Link watches it strain and tells it patiently, "You'll get your turn, hush. Just let me take care of your friends here --" he gives either cilia in his hands a pointed tug -- "and I'll get right back to you."

The cilium is still for a moment in which Link considers that that hasn't happened before, when suddenly it surges up and over. Link falls back in surprise, but the like-like's insides have changed shape again, folded over. The cilium presses against his lips now with an air of what Link is sure is frustrated determination. "All right, all right," he tells it lightly. "You win," and obligingly opens his mouth.

This is very different, Link thinks, though not entirely unpleasant. The cilia pushes deeper into his throat than he could have taken it alone and the pace it sets is punishing at best, terrifying at worst. Link can take it though. The walls of the like-like folded over like this is a very different feeling; it's like he's being pressed by bodies on all sides, with one settled heavily between his legs using his mouth and his arse simultaneously. He's stopped trying to modulate, just lets the cilium fuck his mouth, sucking hard and lapping with his tongue whenever it draws the tip of it out of his throat. 

The cilium finishes abruptly, shoots down his throat at a time when he's thankfully ready to accept it. It flops wetly out of his mouth and hits him on the chin as he swallows and sits up, the cilium in his arse still pumping slowly, regularly. 

There's three left; he's had all the others. Three chances to get it right, theoretically, even if he knows it won't be true. He hopes, if anything, he finishes first. He doesn't want to have to come with his own fingers up his arse; how depressingly common would that be?

He straddles the cilium still in his arse, pulling it out a bit in the process, but he keeps the tip of it in. He sits back slow and gets up on his knees again even slower, but building speed. Quick up, quicker down, he sets, and screws shut his eyes, concentrating on the rising levels of his own pleasure. The cilium begins to quiver and finishes soon after but the next one is close by and readily on hand. Link doesn't start off slow with this one, just pulls it between his legs and stuffs it in as soon as he touches it, riding it so hard his teeth click with every jostle of his slack jaw. His thighs burn but he's almost there, he's almost there when suddenly he feels another pressure at his arsehole, pushing in alongside the one already up his arse. It's too late to stop himself, so he sits down upon them, both of them, sliding against one another in his arse and shifting when he draws them back out. He can take it, so he does. Again. Again. Again.

Then he draws himself up too far, and one of the cilia spills out unexpectedly and slides along beneath his ballsack and hooks underneath his cock in a long line of heat painted wetly along the vein. His arse feels suddenly empty, but it's the heat that does it and the sight of another cock alongside his own. He comes, and his vision blacks out around the edges, his thighs clench as do his every muscle, his insides spasming in waves. The cilium alongside his cock finishes with him, and as he falls back, the one in his arse finishes as well, fluid leaking long trails down his buttocks, the backs of his thighs. 

The like-like has stopped moving as well, and the way out is clear. Link looks up. He's free, if he wants to be.


End file.
